


Courtship Dance

by Avery11



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Valentine 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-02 23:59:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6588613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avery11/pseuds/Avery11





	Courtship Dance

 

The limousine sped silently through the Malibu Hills, whizzing past passers-by taking their evening stroll, or walking their dogs along the cliffside in the fading light. The Pacific Ocean shimmered in the gathering darkness.

Slumped in the backseat, Illya adjusted his jewel-encrusted coronet for the umpteenth time. “I look ridiculous in this thing,” he grumbled, not for the first time.

“'Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown,'” Napoleon replied drily. He slipped a fresh clip of ammo into his Walther.

“And all these useless medals and decorations – ” He tugged at the crimson sash emblazoning his chest. “'Sovereign of the Most Exalted Order of the Elm Tree, Grand Commander of the Artisans of the Ziegenkäse, Knight Meritorious of the Golden Lagerbier.' Could the man possibly be more irrelevant?”

“He's not irrelevant to THRUSH. They'd dearly love to get their hands on all that recently discovered uranium in the mountains of dear old Fezwig-Bas-Graffstein. Thanks to the prince, they smell an opportunity.”

“And I smell a rat. The man has been skimming funds from his country's Treasury – stealing from his own people!” Illya's scowl mirrored his outrage.

“Unfortunately for him, the shortfall was discovered during a routine audit. Now the government is launching an investigation into the missing funds, and Prince Cedric needs a quick infusion of cash to replenish the pilfered accounts.”

“Not to mention, maintain his exorbitant lifestyle. The man has gambling debts to rival his country's GNP. And then there is the royal yacht –” Illya shook his head in disgust.

“He's a piece of work, our Prince Not-So-Charming.” Napoleon brushed a spot of lint off his tuxedo. “He's desperate to find a solution to his financial woes, and has decided that a wealthy American bride would solve his problems nicely.”

“No doubt he will find a gaggle of willing volunteers – you Americans seem enamored of royalty. One wonders why you ever held a Revolution.”

Napoleon let the remark pass. “THRUSH already has the prince's younger brother Heinrich in their pocket. If Crown Prince Cedric were to die suddenly – say, assassinated at a tony dinner party in America – Heinrich would be next in line to the throne.”

“And with their father, the king, so terribly ill –”

“ – THRUSH could accelerate His Majesty's demise, and seize control of the country.”

“And all that uranium.” Illya stared out the window at the passing scene. “Wouldn't it make more sense to put the prince in protective custody? Why this ridiculous charade?”

“Mr. Waverly wants to draw the assassin out into the open, so he or she can be captured. Otherwise, THRUSH will simply keep trying until they succeed –”

“– which makes me the proverbial 'sitting duck.'”

“Afraid so. The assassin could be anyone at the banquet – a guest, a musician, a member of the wait staff – ”

Illya heaved a sigh. “Remind me again why I must risk life and limb to protect the interests of a spoiled, alcoholic playboy who steals from his subjects?”

“Because, dislikeable as Cedric may be, the alternative is far worse. Look, Illya, you don't have to like the guy. You just have to impersonate him until we catch the assassin.”

He glanced out the limousine's tinted window. “Almost there – time to put on your game face. And for pete's sake, fix your crown. It's crooked again.”

As Illya repositioned his coronet, the limousine cleared gate security, and began its climb up the long cobblestone drive. It came to a stop beside a sprawling contemporary villa boasting stunning views of the Pacific Ocean. From the glare emanating from the floor-to-ceiling windows, it seemed as though every light in the place was on.

The limo door opened, and the two agents emerged. Mark Slate, dressed in chauffeur's livery, stood at attention beside the opened door, doing his best to hide a snicker at the sight of Illya in his royal regalia.

“Payback. Later,” Illya muttered through clenched teeth.

“Your Eminence! Yoo hoo!” Their hostess for the evening, Francine Van der Geller – _grande dame_ of the Malibu Van der Gellers – flounced toward them, trailing a noxious cloud of Chanel No. 5 in her wake. She dropped to the pavement in a well-practiced curtsy. “We're _so_ honored to have you attend our little _soirée_ this evening!”

Illya peered down his nose at the obsequious woman.

“Madame,” Napoleon intoned in the nasal tenor he had affected for his role as the prince's _major-domo_ , “One does not 'yoo-hoo' the heir apparent to the throne of Fezwig-Bas-Graffstein. Furthermore, Prince Cedric is a crown prince, not a cardinal. He is to be addressed as 'Your Royal Highness.'”

“Oh, I _do_ beg your _pardon!_ ” She curtsied again, her nose nearly touching the ground, ankles wobbling under the strain of supporting her considerable bosoms. “If it please Your Royal Highness, your guests await your arrival with – that is to say – _avec grande excitation_.”

Illya rolled his eyes. It was going to be a long evening.

A butler escorted them through a pair of wide mahogany doors, and down an endless hallway adorned with numbered Picasso prints and oils by Klee and DeKooning. Napoleon peered into the various salons as they passed by – a sun parlor, an office, a vast library he was pretty sure his partner would kill to explore – scouting out potential places where an attacker might hide.

“Keep your eyes open,” he whispered to Illya, “I don't want to have to do any messy cleanup if the assassin finds you.”

“Your concern is overwhelming. If I die, I shall endeavor to do it neatly.”

They stopped before a pair of gilded antique doors, jarringly out of place in this mansion of gleaming glass and chrome. Napoleon wondered whether the curators at Versailles had noticed one of their _portes grandes_ was missing.

At some invisible signal, the doors swung open, and the herald – hired from Central Casting, by the look of his costume – snapped to attention. “His Royal Highness, the Crown Prince Cedric of Fezwig-Bas-Graffstein, Sovereign of the Most Exalted Order of the Elm Tree, Grand Commander of...” The list of honorary titles went on and on while Illya did his best to look bored

A hundred wealthy guests dropped to their knees, applauding. The orchestra began to play. At the far end of the room, April Dancer – disguised as a waitress for the evening – risked a brief, worried nod.

Mrs. Van der Geller gestured toward the assembled guests. “Shall we, Your Highness?”

As they stepped further into the room, Napoleon abruptly stiffened. “Don't look now -”

But the Russian had seen them, too. Five stunning blondes, dressed to the nines in what Illya recognized as Balenciaga couture. All five had similar features, and two looked enough alike to be twins. The assembled guests stepped back to allow them to pass. “They look like those Amazons from the Navaronne Affair,” he whispered, “You don't suppose –?”

“Your Highness,” Mrs. Van der Geller, trilled, “allow me to present my daughters: Annabelle, Bettina, Clarissa, Dorothea and Evangeline.” The five young women executed perfect curtsies, one after the other.

Illya's head tilted in acknowledgement. “Alphabetically arranged. How convenient.” The evening was beginning to feel like a scene from _Cinderella_ , complete with pushy stepmother. He wondered whether it was too late to bolt for the pumpkin coach.

“Perhaps Your Highness would care to dance,” Mrs. Van der Geller prodded hopefully. “All my girls are wonderful dancers. Graceful as swans.”

He pasted on a smile. “Of course they are.” He extended his hand to the nearest of the twin sisters, Annabelle. She giggled rather shrilly, and off they went to the strains of a Sinatra ballad. Mrs. Van der Geller beamed, giddy with pleasure.

Illya mentally allotted two dances for each Van der Geller daughter before he could reasonably extricate himself. True to their mother's word, they were graceful creatures, although their command of the social niceties left much to be desired. Annabelle babbled non-stop while managing to say absolutely nothing, as though she feared the sound of crickets invading any awkward silences. Illya attempted to deepen the conversation by asking about her interests, only to find that she had none worth mentioning.

Bettina spent her allotted time talking about the most interesting thing in _her_ life – herself. _Her_ schooling at Miss Porter's and in Switzerland, _her_ substantial trust fund, _her_ recent holiday in Biarritz, the lineage of _her_ dressage mount. It was more of a job interview than a dance, Illya thought as his eyes glazed over.

Clarissa said nothing, but merely stared adoringly into his eyes as though she hoped someday to drown in them. Dorothea spent an inordinate amount of time assuring Illya of her virginity, and her willingness to bear many, many children.

At the end of the first hour, Illya returned to their table. He seized a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, and drained it. “These women – they are all so –“

“ – pretty? Clever? Rich?”

“Hungry. I feel like a prize steer being fattened for the _abattoir._ Any sign of THRUSH and their ilk?”

“Nothing so far. I'm beginning to wonder if we've been sent on a wild goose chase. How are the Van der Geller daughters – besides their appetite for braised Prince, I mean?”

“Nice enough, I suppose, if a bit plastic. Their mother has spent years coaching them on how to 'catch a husband' – as though their sole mission in life is to find wealthy men to marry. I doubt there is a genuine thought left in their pretty little heads.”

“Maybe Number Five will be different. Go and have another dance, and I'll keep looking for our assassin.”

*/*/*/

He found Evangeline perched on the terrace railing, looking up at the stars. Her bare feet dangled over the railing, her stockings tossed carelessly onto a nearby lawn chair. Illya thought she looked rather charming in her _dishabille._

“Miss Van der Geller?”

“Go away.”

“Now, now, is that any way to treat a prince?” He held out his hand. “Put on your shoes and come dance with me.”

“I don't want to dance.” Her lip thrust out in a pout. “And I've no intention of marrying you, either."

Illya's eyebrows rose. _Interesting._

"Don't look so surprised, Your Highness. Mother explained your dire financial situation this morning at breakfast.”

“I see. Forewarned is forearmed, is that it? Ah, well." He feigned a sigh. "I don't suppose it would make a difference if I told you that I'm an excellent dancer?"

"Not one bit."

"Too bad. Your sisters certainly seemed to enjoy themselves.”

“I'm not anything like my sisters."

"Yes, I'm beginning to realize that." 

"I'm the black sheep of the family, or hadn't you heard?”

Illya feigned an expression of puzzlement. “What does this mean - 'black sheep?'”

“It means I don't do what's expected. Play nicely with others. Say please and thank you.”

“And that is bad? Playing nicely with others? Saying thank you?”

“It is, if you don't mean it.”

"I see." He coughed to conceal a smile.

“You mustn't blame my sisters - they're really quite sweet once you get to know them. It's just that, ever since Father died, Mother's been indoctrinating them in the gentle art of Social Climbing. Father left a number of debts, you see, and Mother thinks that marrying off her daughters to wealthy men will save the family from wrack and ruin.” 

“But you don't agree?”

"Not in the slightest. Oh, Mother tried to reel me in with the others -- dear God, how she tried! She can be frightfully determined when she wants something. We battled back and forth for years before she finally gave up on me.”

Evangeline stretched, catlike, revealing well-toned arms, a long, slender neck. Illya was abruptly aware of her beauty, and of a growing attraction for the forthright young woman.

“'There's a stubbornness about you,'” he remarked, “'that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. Your courage rises at every attempt to intimidate you.' ”

Evangeline's lips parted in surprise. You've read “ _Pride and Prejudice?_ ”

“Don't sound so shocked. I do know how to read, you know.”

“I'm shocked that you have _time_ to read, given your scandalous social life.” She held up a hand to stifle his protest. “You needn't bother denying it. I've read the gossip columns. Drunken parties on the royal yacht, brawling in the streets of Vienna, arrested for swimming naked in the Trevi Fountain. And now you're here to find an American bride.” Her gaze burrowed into him. “True or not true?”

“I have reached the age of responsibility, or so my advisers remind me daily. It is time I married and produced an heir.”

“Someone rich, beautiful, and willing to sell their self-respect for a European title?”

Illya shrugged, as though the answer didn't matter. “One does what one must.” He read the condemnation on her face.

Evangeline turned her gaze out to sea. “You're wasting time with me. Go and dance with my sisters. If Mother has anything to say about it, you'll be engaged to one of them by the time the clock strikes midnight.”

“I would much rather stay and talk with you awhile longer.”

“Why? I'm not going to change my mind.”

“Because substantive conversations are rare in royal circles, and I enjoy the company of an agile mind.”

“Is that what we're having – a 'substantive conversation?'”

“What would you call it?”

She rolled her eyes. “Do you always answer a question with a question?”

“Which response will win me a dance?'”

Evangeline smiled, despite her resolution not to. “You really are very different from what I expected.”

“Am I?”

“There you go again, all questions, but no answers.” She cocked her head thoughtfully. “You're unpredictable, like a puzzle where half the pieces are missing. I can't make sense of you. On the one hand, you admit that you're discount shopping for an American wife – a dimwitted Barbie doll with mammaries and a trust fund. On the other –”

“Yes?”

“You quote Jane Austen, and you enjoy substantive conversation. It's like – like you're two different people.” She studied him, the way a scientist might study an unusual specimen. “Like you aren't who you say you are.”

Illya was astonished by the young woman's perceptiveness. He had played countless roles in the past – Mongolian warlord, Russian revolutionary, wealthy art collector, neo-Nazi – virtually all of them undetected, even by experts trained to uncover deception. And yet in a few short minutes, Evangeline had all but unmasked him.

She grinned, triumphant. “I'm right, aren't I? I've hit a nerve.” She touched his mouth with her finger, and he drew in a shocked breath. “See how you worry your lower lip? And your irises are dilated – that's a dead giveaway. People's irises always dilate when they –”

He kissed her.

She tasted of strawberries, of chocolate and white wine. Her hair smelled like sunshine on a Spring morning. The kiss was gentle and mostly chaste, a tender exploration of possibilities. His hands framed her face, fingers massaging the delicate outline of her jaw. Her eyelids fluttered; her breath grew shallow. He deepened the kiss, and felt her lips soften in surprise.

Abruptly, she pulled away. “Please –” she gasped. She shook her head, as though to clear it. Her eyes were wide and dazed. “Please. No, I –”

He stepped back, watching the war raging behind the hazel eyes, heart and head seeking common ground, a respite from the No Man's Land that had been her sanctuary for so long. “Perhaps I should go,” he acknowledged gently, in an effort to spare her further pain.

Evangeline stared at him for a long moment. A sigh of surrender escaped her lips. “Stay.” She pulled him down to her.

He kissed her again, fusing his mouth to hers, claiming her with his tongue. A liquid heat began to spread through his groin. His hips pressed closer, and he felt her body soften into his, her perfectly manicured fingers clutching desperately at his hair. His hands grazed the swell of one breast and she mewed softly, an erotic sound. He could feel her heart racing in counterpoint to his own, the pulse points at her wrist and neck suffused with the heat of their contact.

“The pool house is just around the corner,” she murmured, nestling against him. “It would be more private –”

A bullet whizzed by his ear! Another! He pushed Evangeline to the ground and drew his weapon. His ears detected the high-pitched whine of a THRUSH laser rifle somewhere in the nearby copse of trees.

A third bullet embedded itself in the stone wall, inches above his head. Illya swiftly calculated the trajectory, and knew they had to move or die. He seized Evangeline's shoulders in a death grip, and pulled her into the relative shelter of the stone wall.

“Listen to me! When I tell you, run. Keep close to the ground, and head for the pool house. Once you are inside, lock the doors and hide. Remain absolutely quiet. Not a sound. Do you understand?”

She stared at the gun in his hand. “Why do you have a –?”

“Tell me you understand!”

She nodded, looking pale and terrified.

Illya aimed his Walther at a stand of blue oaks a hundred yards away, and began laying down cover fire. “Go!”

Evangeline ran. Illya continued firing until she rounded the corner of the villa, out of range of the assassin's bullets. Once she was clear, he rotated his body into a shadowed niche in the wall, and considered his options.

The trajectory of the gunfire indicated several shooters, possibly as many as half a dozen, positioned at intervals across the wooded cliffside. His only avenue of escape lay in the direction of the pool house, an option he discarded at once – it would lead the attackers directly to Evangeline.

“Come out, Your Highness,” a voice called from the shelter of the trees. “You're surrounded.”

Illya marked the location, and squeezed off a shot. He heard it ping off the trunk of a tree.

“Come, come, Your Highness. Be reasonable. We only want to hold you for ransom. You won't be harmed, I promise.”

He fired off another shot, and was gratified to hear a grunt of pain emanate from the wooded darkness. He snapped in a fresh clip of ammo - his last - and waited.

A new voice. “No one is coming to save you. The orchestra is playing quite loudly inside – a medley of Big Band favorites, I'm told – and the windows are double-paned and soundproofed. They can't hear a thing.”

Illa sighed. He had expected as much. Still, it wouldn't be long before Napoleon or April missed him. If he could just hold out until then –

Francine Van der Geller wandered onto the pool terrace, a glass of champagne in her hand. She caught sight of Illya crouched behind the wall, and waved. “Yoo-hoo! Your Highness!”

Illya swore.

She stumbled toward him, looking confused, and more than a little tipsy. “Whatever are you doing there on the ground, Your Highness? Did you lose something?”

“Go back inside, now!”

“Not one of your lovely medals, I hope?” She wobbled closer, champagne sloshing over the side of her glass. “Let me help you look for it. Two heads are better than one, I always say.” 

Illya kept his eyes focused on the copse of trees, watching for movement. “Please go away, Mrs. Van der Geller! Someone is shooting at me and I would hate for you to get hurt!”

“Say pretty please.”

Illya's head snapped around.

Francine Van der Geller held a nine millimeter handgun, the barrel pointed directly at his heart.

“Surprise!” She looked down at him, all traces of the shallow socialite gone. In her place stood a woman accustomed to power, and its lethal uses. Her eyes were ice-cold, and held no trace of mercy. Her hand was steady on the trigger. Even her voice was different – pitched deeper, with a hint of savagery lurking just below the surface.

“What is the meaning of this, Mrs. Van der Geller?”

“You can drop the act, Mr. Kuryakin. We both know you aren't the real prince. I recognized you and Mr. Solo the moment you stepped out of the limo.”

 _She was THRUSH!_ Fear skittered down his spine.

“I see we understand one another. Good. Now, be a good little UNCLE agent and lower your weapon. Place it on the ground in front of you.”

He did as she had instructed. "How long?"

"- have I been a member of THRUSH? Let's see now -" She tapped her chin pensively. "Nearly fifteen years. I was recruited shortly after the death of my late husband." She watched his shocked reaction with satisfaction. "You have a question, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"I see no advantage in aligning yourself with THRUSH. You already have considerable wealth and status. What more could they possibly offer you?”

" _More_ money. _More_ status." She smiled, as though they were having a casual conversation about the weather, or the latest fashions from Paris. “Did you know that I murdered my husband?”

“Somehow, I am not surprised. How did you do it, if I may ask?”

“Cyanide in his tea. Not terribly original, but it did the job."

"And no one suspected?" 

"No one."

Illya looked for signs of remorse, and saw none. "But why kill him? You already had access to his considerable wealth and position."

"Access, yes, but not control. Sidney held the financial reins too tightly for my needs- I have expensive taste, you see. I wanted more than the paltry monthly allowance he gave me." She scowled. "Imagine my surprise when I discovered after his death that everything was gone. Every penny! He'd made a series of rash investments and bad stock purchases over the years. When the bottom fell out of the Market, he lost everything. I was broke; about to be homeless. That was when THRUSH came calling.”

“THRUSH offered you money.”

“More than I ever dreamed.”

“In exchange for?”

Her smile was chilling. “My connections, darling. Not to mention, the villa made a perfect front for their satrapy." She giggled. "Imagine the irony - THRUSH hiding one of their facilities right here under UNCLE's nose. And with my reputation, they would have access to potential recruits with lots of zeros in their bank balances.”

 _Her connections were financing the satrapy!_ It was brilliant. “And your your daughters? Are they working for THRUSH, too?”

“Good heavens, no! They're completely clueless, which makes them a convenient cover for my less-than-ethical activities. No one suspects the addle-brained but loving mother of five boring daughters. Why should they?”

He had not.

“And now that I've satisfied your curiosity, Mr. Kuryakin, I'm afraid we must turn the conversation back to business.”

 _Keep her talking_. “At least we've kept you from assassinating Prince Cedric.”

“True, we planned to kill the prince tonight at the banquet. Your unexpected appearance has forced us to alter those plans, but not to worry – the prince will die, along with his father, very soon. Prince Heinrich will ascend to the throne as we promised him, and THRUSH will have its uranium.”

“You will have to find Prince Cedric first.”

“We already have him under surveillance. In the meantime, the assassination of a pair of UNCLE's finest isn't a bad consolation prize.” Her finger twitched on the trigger.

A shot rang out. Illya waited for the sharp surge of pain, the swift fade-to-black, but it never came. To his surprise, it was Francine Van der Geller who fell, holding onto her arm and writhing in pain. The revolver flew out of her hand, landing in the swimming pool. It sank to the bottom in seconds.

Illya scanned the villa's façade, looking for the source of the shot. _Napoleon? April or Mark?_ His eyes widened.

Evangeline stood on the second floor balcony, pointing a skeet rifle at her mother's chest. “Don't even think about moving, Mother,” she ordered. “You know how good I am at shooting those little clay pigeons.”

“Oh, thank heavens you're here, darling!” Mrs. Van der Geller exclaimed, her voice trembling in mock terror. “This horrible man is an impostor. He's kidnapped the real prince, and just now he tried to –”

“Shut up, Mother. God knows, I've heard enough of your lies.”

For possibly the first time in her life, Francine Van der Geller fell silent.

*/*/*/

A team of UNCLE agents swarmed the estate minutes later, and began rounding up the remaining members of the satrapy. An UNCLE cleanup crew was _en route_ , and would be arriving within the hour to inventory the contents of the offices and laboratories concealed beneath the villa's foundation. The dismantling of THRUSH's Malibu satrapy had begun.

Francine Van der Geller spouted obscenities as she was led away in handcuffs. The Van der Geller daughters watched with stunned expressions, the four oldest girls sobbing at the sight, clinging to one another for support as their world fell apart before their eyes.

Evangeline stood by the window, watching her mother's departure with a mixture of awe and revulsion. Her eyes, Illya noted, were dry.

“Are you all right?” he asked gently.

“I will be. I'm strong. My sisters – that's another story. They've never had to be strong before.”

“Then it is good that they have you to teach them.” They watched the van containing Francine Van der Geller drive away. “Napoleon told me that you didn't go to the pool house, where you would have been safe. You went to find him instead. You saved my life.”

“It seemed to be a life worth saving.” She smiled. 'Not everyone can quote Jane Austen, after all."

“And not everyone has the courage to act in the face of danger, as you did.” He hesitated. “Perhaps I could show my appreciation later – a dance with an ex-prince?”

"We never did get to have one, did we?" Evangeline made a show of looking around. “Too bad the orchestra's gone," she observed coyly. 

"Hmm, yes. That _is_ too bad." Illya's blue eyes turned dark and sultry. “I suppose we will have to make our own.”

She pursed her lips, considering it.

He linked his arm in hers.

*/*/*/

 

 


End file.
